


The Bond That Keeps

by SanBaerli



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:43:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8051512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanBaerli/pseuds/SanBaerli
Summary: Spoilers for Season 3 Episode 8 (Prisoner of War). This story begins where Porthos catches up to Aramis and Grimaud and takes a different path from there. Brotherhood and H/C.





	1. Part I

Note: This has already been posted on Fanfic.net since the end of July, so you might have already come across it. I realized I never posted it on AO3 but felt it might still be worth doing so, in case there is anyone who exclusively stays on this site :)

A/N: It's good to be back! With this little story, I indulged in a 'what if' scenario because I thought Grimaud took it a little too easy on Aramis during 'Prisoner Of War'. And just like many others, I missed the brotherhood and camaraderie from season one. This is my attempt to get their friendship back on track. I would love to hear your thoughts about my little version of Episode 8 :)

A huge thank you to JackFan2 for her wonderful support and additions to this piece. All remaining mistakes are mine :)  
I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.

 

The Bond That Keeps  
Part I - Porthos

 

"Kill us both!"

Those three little words held the raw force of a lightning bolt as they easily penetrated the haze that had settled behind Porthos' eyes since that blasted rock struck the side of his head. Aramis' desperate plea for vengeance and self-sacrifice served to ignite a powder cake of irrational anger within him. How dare he ask such a thing?

Porthos' heartbeat thundered like the hoofbeats of a thousand horses and was matched in intensity only by the merciless pounding inside his skull. When his vision briefly reduced to a faded landscape and his aim wavered, it was almost impossible to remain focused.

"Do it!"

Time limped like a wounded animal as Porthos blinked several times in an attempt to clear his blurry vision, struggling to make sense of the scene before him.

Using Aramis as a human shield and firmly pressing his pistol into the marksman's back, Grimaud managed to keep himself out of the line of fire.

At Porthos' current angle it would have been a difficult shot on his best day. Considering the way the world lost focus at random intervals due to the pulsating ache behind his temple, it was clear that this was, in fact, not his best day.

He could not trust in his ability to hit Grimaud without driving a bullet through his friend's body. And despite Aramis' ridiculous pleas, he'd be damned if he would risk it.

Frozen in time and indecision, Porthos tried to gauge Aramis' condition. In spite of his constantly tilting sight and the pounding in his head , he was able to recognize the bone weary exhaustion marring the marksman's features but could only guess at the harsh treatment that would have preceded the stiff posture he witnessed.

When Porthos' gaze collided with Aramis', he was taken aback by the fiery spark of determination and desperate resolve brightening the eyes that greeted him. There was an almost frantic need visible in those depths; screaming at him to understand the extent of the sacrifice his friend was willing to make to see Grimaud dead.

Understanding all too well what was expected of a soldier in service to the King, Porthos was not naïve enough to believe any of them were not expendable. Expendable to everyone but each other, that was. And Aramis was a sacrifice he was not willing to accept. No matter how dire the consequences. No matter how high the stakes.

For if they sacrificed each other to win this war, there would be nothing left to fight for. Aramis had yet to realize that, and Porthos would make sure his friend lived long enough to do so.

The commanding tone of Aramis' next words would have prompted lesser men into action. "Shoot. Now!"

"Shut up!" Porthos' answering bark held all the fury and pent up frustration of a caged bear. He was no longer able to control his emotions in the face of his friend's utter disregard for his own safety.

When pistol fire shattered the air next to him, his world exploded into a flurry of activity.

Athos.

Leaving the barrel with speed and a cloud of smoke, the small leaden ball cut the tension that had mounted. For one single heartbeat Porthos was paralyzed with the fear that Aramis' sacrifice might be claimed after all.

In the end, Athos' shot missed altogether but their enemy's retaliation for the attack was swift. While Grimaud's associate quickly drew his rapier and advanced on Athos' position, Grimaud himself evenly leveled his pistol at Porthos' chest.

As the ball sped towards Porthos with alarming velocity, it took a moment for his body to react.

He watched in horror as Aramis' knees buckled, unable to reconcile his friend's features distorting in pain with the thundering discharge of the weapon too close to his ear drum.

When his brain finally issued the command to leap sideways, Porthos recognized the close call for what it was when the shot sped past close enough to feel a gust of air brush his cheek.

Tasting dirt in his mouth and bruising his bones on the rocky surface beneath him, Porthos could not keep his angry growl at bay. He pushed onto his elbows and knees immediately, mind still reeling, desperate to regain his bearings.

Grimaud made a run for his horse.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos saw d'Artagnan sprint past him with the speed and agility of youthful determination. He recognized his younger friend's single-minded mission to bring their nemesis to justice.

Further ahead Porthos witnessed Athos deliver a final blow to another of Grimaud's men, shattering his opponent's defenses and cleanly running him through.

Finally gaining his feet, Porthos cursed his lack of equilibrium and the man who had landed such an unlucky blow to the side of his head. While scanning the immediate area to locate Aramis, the scenery slid and blurred like an oil painting as his vision lost focus once more.

When he set eyes on Aramis, he watched as the marksman struggled to get a foot underneath himself and slowly pushed his way upright with obvious effort. Hands still shackled together in front of him, his friend seemed to have trouble keeping his balance as he swayed precariously.

With Aramis no longer in the line of fire and in no immediate need, Porthos made a split second decision to move past his friend, rushing to aid d'Artagnan in his pursuit of Grimaud.

He knew he was too late even before he reached the edge of the woods. Frustration tore at his gut as he could do no more than watch as their enemy already thundered into the thick of the forest on horseback to escape once more.

Just ahead, d'Artagnan aimed his pistol at the man's back and pulled the trigger.

And Porthos watched with bated breath. Hoping...

The bark of a tree splintered violently with the impact of the lead ball, the echo of the shot startling a flock of birds to frenzied flight. D'Artagnan's enraged roar reverberated through the clearing, his uncontrolled fury perfectly serving to announce that once again, Grimaud had evaded them.

"You should have all fired. And killed us both!"

Porthos' vision turned white as blinding anger suddenly ruled his head and heart at Aramis' relentless demand for self-sacrifice.

"Are you kiddin' me with this?" – His rage drove him forward, pointing an accusing finger in Aramis' direction – "You have no right to ask this of any of us."

Aramis did not respond but exhaled shakily and lifted both his shackled hands to wipe the beading sweat off his brow.

Even after all the time they had spent apart, Porthos still recognized Aramis' reckless behavior as the same methods the man before him had always displayed when he believed his service to the Crown, his country, and its citizens demanded it. The dire consequences those actions often held for himself were always stubbornly disregarded.

Usually, Porthos was able to handle his friend's lack of self-preservation because he always respected his motives. This time, though, it only served to ignite his temper.

His body was brimming with the need to vent his frustrations lest he choke on them. "And you shouldn't 'ave been keepin' secrets! Then perhaps this whole mess would've turned out different."

At his continued rant, Aramis finally sought to defend his actions and raised his voice to match Porthos in volume and ferocity. "I wanted peace," he began, gesturing wildly with his bound hands, fighting desperately to explain himself. "We've all seen what war does to the world. It makes refugees, men like Grimaud…"

"There was no reason to go at it alone," Porthos interjected fiercely. "You should have told us! We would have –" The weight of a hand came to rest on his shoulder, halting his tirade.

"Porthos. Stop."

The quiet warning hidden in the sound of his name had him turning his head instantly. He was met by d'Artagnan's sidelong glance, his features clouded in shadows by the deep frown marring his forehead. But it was the open concern Porthos detected in his younger friend's eyes that caused him to blink in confusion.

"Something is not right," d'Artagnan said with a quick nod of his head. Porthos' eyes followed the direction his friend indicated and realized that Aramis was the subject of his scrutiny.

It remained a challenge for Porthos to think passed the cobwebs still stubbornly clouding his mind. In addition, the anger which had surged bright and hot within him a minute prior had left him almost dizzy.

When he hurriedly turned his gaze back to Aramis, his stomach twisted in knots at the possibility that he had missed something important.

The marksman now stood quietly rooted to the spot where he had so vehemently defended his actions mere moments ago. When Porthos' eyes carefully scanned the man before him, he slowly registered a suspiciously pale face, clammy skin and a small but steady tremor that had taken a firm hold on Aramis' upper body.

It seemed he had indeed missed something.

"Aramis?" His voice felt like dry sand, scratching his throat painfully as it emerged. Guilt, ugly and dark started to spread inside his chest with frightening speed.

Glassy eyes lifted to meet Porthos' frantic gaze, and he was hard pressed to tell when exactly Aramis' chest had started to heave in the mad rhythm he witnessed.

"I am truly sorry. My friend," Aramis panted breathlessly. The words, spoken with too much effort were carried away instantly when a sudden gust of wind whisked past them, attempting to penetrate armor and bringing with it an air of warning.

Aramis' arm slowly wound around his midsection and his shackled hands came to rest just under his ribs on his left side. The light pressure of the touch left him gasping for air while his features twisted into a mask of pain.

Porthos immediately recognized the sticky substance oozing out between gloved fingers.

No. His throat constricted violently, a surge of fear ripping through his chest and winding around his heart.

His eyes still firmly locked on Aramis' in a desperate attempt to keep his friend anchored to the present and connected to himself, Porthos watched with bated breath as Aramis' knees buckled.

Leaping forward with no conscious thought and more speed than he believed his tired body capable of, Porthos reached his destination just as his friend's knees hit the ground with a dull thud.

Skidding to his knees, Porthos stopped Aramis' forward momentum by catching his friend's upper body against his chest. When the injured man's head fell limply onto his shoulder, the vulnerability of the act increased his worry exponentially.

"Damn it. Aramis?" Porthos was hard pressed to keep the panic at bay, especially when no reply reached his ears. "A little help here!" Even as he barked his command for assistance, he recognized the sound of hurried footsteps as both Athos and d'Artagnan already rushed to his side.

The Gascon reached them first, falling to the ground where Porthos still held their ailing friend in an awkward embrace. "What the hell happened?" d'Artagnan asked breathlessly. "Did anyone see him get hit?"

Porthos only managed to shake his head slowly in denial.

"Alright, easy now," d'Artagnan cautioned and hooked his arms under Aramis' shoulders from behind to carefully lift him out of Porthos' hold. "I've got him. Let's lay him on his back and take a look."

When d'Artagnan failed to complete the movement, and Aramis hung limply between them, Porthos looked at the Gascon expectedly. The sympathy he read in the young man's eyes confused him. "I've got him, Porthos," d'Artagnan repeated quietly. "You need to let go."

Right. Briefly closing his eyes in an attempt to gather his scattered thoughts, Porthos reluctantly loosened his firm hold and allowed d'Artagnan to move Aramis backward to settle him gently on the ground.

The hammer pounding away inside Porthos' head made it ever more challenging to follow events as they unfolded around him. He simply refused to give in until he knew for certain that Aramis' solitary pursuit of peace would not cost him his life.

Unconscious, Aramis' head rolled to the side, allowing Porthos to inspect his condition. Dark circles underneath closed eyes bruised the marksman's pale skin, lending him a ghostly appearance.

Drawn by the dark and frighteningly large stains covering his friend's leathers, Porthos' eyes studied the ragged tear in the garment above the belt and just below the ribs.

He blanched at the thought of what might lie underneath. "This is no musket wound," he muttered under his breath, for his own benefit more so than anyone else's, his sluggish mind fervently trying to fathom what had happened.

He needed to see.

Porthos grasped the chain that still bound his friend's wrists together. After unlocking the shackles, he quickly discarded the offending object.

In an effort to gain access to the wound, Porthos unfastened the buckles on Aramis' doublet and loosened the blue sash beneath. During his attempt to open the leather clasps, he realized that his fingers suddenly lacked the necessary dexterity to complete the task. His hands insisted on shaking without his permission, and the leather fastenings kept slipping through his grasp.

Something wet suddenly entered his eye and obscured his view, halting his urgent efforts. Tilting his head to the side, he wiped his face on his upper arm. In his peripheral vision, he noticed the red stains now adorning his armor and growled in annoyance at the reminder of his own wound.

Calloused fingers suddenly covered his uncooperative hands and Porthos brought his head up to find Athos staring at him intently. "Here," he said soothingly, as if trying to calm a wounded animal, "let me." Even soft-spoken, the words and steady gaze brooked no argument as Athos firmly moved Porthos' hands aside to quickly complete the task before them.

When the last buckle released and Athos pulled open the leather overcoat, Porthos' breath caught in his throat. Aramis' blood stained shirt was saturated, the vast expanse of red stains painting a truly frightening picture.

There was no time to hesitate. Reaching in, Porthos grasped the wet material and quickly tore it open to expose the injury. Taking Aramis' discarded sash, Athos pressed it to the wound immediately, staunching the flow of blood. After a moment, he lifted the cloth slightly, allowing them a quick examination.

"Bloody hell." Porthos grumbled. He surveyed the damage with a trained eye that had seen too many battle wounds for one lifetime. Even though he could tell that the injury was inflicted by a dagger, the gash was too wide and the edges too ragged to be caused by a smooth blade. He turned knowing eyes to Athos. "Serrated edge?"

The older musketeer cringed in response. "Certainly looks that way."

Porthos heaved a heavy sigh and felt sweat beading on his brow. A stab wound caused by a serrated weapon was always more difficult to close, causing additional pain and bleeding. How on earth had he missed this?

But in his heart, he already knew the answer. When he had first caught up to Aramis, his world had narrowed to the anger elicited by his friend's careless actions, and all possible warning signs had been overridden in favor of venting his frustrations.

Quickly pulling the scarf off his head, Porthos pressed it firmly into the steadily seeping wound before Athos lowered the sash, doubling their efforts to stem the loss of blood.

The low moan reaching his ears signaled Aramis' rude awakening and return to consciousness. Porthos witnessed the exact moment when awareness struck as Aramis arched his back, desperately trying to escape the torment and pressure.

Athos leaned in to grasp Aramis' shoulder in support. "Steady now." – Tightening his grip, the swordsman made sure he was in Aramis' line of sight. – "Deep breaths brother. We will make this right. I promise you, we will make this right."

Porthos had seen enough death in recent years to understand that there were no assurances that Athos' statement would hold true. But between the four of them, they would tolerate no other outcome.

He watched as Aramis' eyes, frantic and wide with confusion, searched for the source of his misery. When his gaze found Porthos' bloodstained hands, his growing agitation was easily recognizable as the marksman's chest started to heave uncontrollably and his words came with the same labored quality as his breathing. "What. Happened?"

In the face of Aramis' disorientation, Porthos tried to quell the panic threatening to seize his chest by ordering his hands to maintain the pressure that kept the blood at bay, and forcing his voice to remain steady. "We were hopin' you'd tell us."

When Aramis seemed unable to respond, d'Artagnan leaned in close. "Don't you remember?" he prompted gently.

Aramis briefly closed his eyes in an obvious effort to compose himself. As Porthos watched his friend slowly take one deep breath, then another, he marveled at the other man's ability to calm himself by sheer force of will.

After opening his lids once more, Aramis' eyes focused on Porthos without difficulty. Gone was the confusion that had visibly clouded his irises earlier. The pain, however, had etched itself into his friend's features, promising to be a constant companion for the foreseeable future.

"Grimaud," Aramis whispered with a sneer in his voice. "He did not appreciate that I shouted out details about the strength of his forces upon your arrival. I suppose he wanted it to be a surprise." – He exhaled shakily when a visible tremor drove through his body. – "He stabbed me to force my silence."

As soon as his brain fully comprehended Aramis' explanation, Porthos' precarious hold on his temper threatened to slip.

"You couldn't just for once do the sensible thing and keep your mouth shut?"

"I was trying to be helpful," Aramis explained as his breath hitched. "Besides, it was Grimaud's intend to silence me, not to kill his only leverage. He didn't drive the dagger deep enough to pierce anything vital."

"That supposed to make it al'ight?" Porthos snapped, the bite to his words harsher than he had intended when the fear coursing through his body forced him to overreact.

It became obvious then that Aramis' usual defenses were shattered when he failed to conceal his emotions and pain and sorrow freely displayed on his features. Porthos cursed himself inwardly and hastened to soften his tone.

"Never mind that now. We'll talk about this later." Leaving one hand to maintain the pressure on the wound, Porthos lifted the other and placed it where he knew his friend's heart to be. "Right now we need to get this bleedin' under control."

"My thoughts exactly." The reprimand in Athos' voice left no room for interpretation and the Captain's disapproving glare in his direction served as proof that Porthos had gone too far.

"We need shelter to tend the wound," d'Artagnan added quickly before tempers could continue to rise. "The spot where Aramis was being held appeared secluded enough to provide sufficient cover for the night. The fire I saw might even still be going."

"What about Grimaud?" Aramis asked quietly, his lids threatening to close.

"Grimaud is long gone," Athos replied, his voice like gravel. "The satisfaction of killing him will have to wait until next time."

Aramis' eyes narrowed in disagreement, and he opened his mouth to voice his objection when Athos continued. "Do not concern yourself, my friend. Grimaud will face justice for all that he has done. I will not stand for anything else." – Athos squeezed Aramis' shoulder in solidarity. – "His day of judgment will be upon him soon enough."

The conviction in Athos' voice served to smooth the lines in Aramis' forehead and with a tired nod, the injured man finally closed his eyes.

"Ey. Not yet brother." Porthos allowed the concern raging within him to color his words in an effort to atone for his earlier outburst. "We need to move first. Any chance you can walk?"

Forcing his eyes open with obvious effort, Aramis tilted his head in contemplation. "It is not far, I should be able to manage."

Without warning, Aramis placed his hands on either side of him and pushed off the ground in his attempt to sit up. When his stomach muscles contracted to complete the movement, all remaining color drained from his skin. Athos rushed to steady Aramis from behind when his trembling body threatened to collapse.

"Stubborn fool," Athos bit out. "Will you wait for help!"

The heaving chest was a testimony to the pain assaulting Aramis' system and his face told the story of his suffering as his breath caught in his throat. "I'm just not very popular today. Am I?" he complained through gritted teeth.

"Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor," Porthos remarked. "Pitiful as it is."

He kept the hand covering the wound in place and extended the other for Aramis to grasp.

"I spent the last four years in a monastery," Aramis reminded as he reached for Porthos and locked their arms with a tight grip. "Sadly, monks aren't known for their wit, and I'm afraid I might still be a bit rusty in that department."

"Ah, I don't know. I hate to tell you this, but you never were all that funny to begin with." Porthos savored the feeling of familiarity their teasing evoked as he got one foot underneath him and slowly pushed off the ground, pulling Aramis with him as he went.

With the sudden change in elevation, the thunderstorm that had slowly gathered inside Porthos' head, attempted to overtake him. A torrent of pain drove unrelentingly through his brain, forcing him to release the bandage he'd held pressed into Aramis' wound in favor of clutching the side of his head. When the agonizing sensation assailed his mind, the world suddenly shifted dangerously beneath his feet.

An angry growl made it past his lips when a wave of dizziness distorted his senses, and he found himself fighting to regain his balance. He attempted to remove his other arm from Aramis' grasp, refusing to take his injured friend down to the ground with him.

But Aramis would not relinquish his hold. When he stubbornly tightened his grip on Porthos instead, Athos and d'Artagnan rushed in to hold them both upright.

"Porthos?" Three separate voices, colored with various degrees of concern, penetrated the haze that suddenly trapped him.

He wanted to tell them that he was fine, wanted to alleviate their worries and get on with it. Only his world was reduced to a narrow tunnel of blurred images and the foggy aftermath of the storm clouding his mind made it impossible to form a coherent thought, let alone speak it aloud.

Several hands adjusted their support, and somehow he instinctively knew that the tight grip on his left shoulder was Athos' while the reassuring hold on his right elbow undoubtedly belonged to d'Artagnan.

"Porthos. Look at me." Aramis' voice sounded far away. "Porthos?"

He felt a gloved hand firmly cup the side of his neck; a simple touch creating a solid connection that clearly conveyed its purpose to ground him, to call him back into the present. There was something achingly familiar about the gesture; a gesture he hadn't felt in years.

"Porthos. Please. Look at me."

The breathless quality of Aramis' plea forced him to renew his efforts to banish the fog inside his head.

When he forced his eyes to focus on Aramis' worried features, his vision slowly cleared, and the dizziness no longer threatened to overtake him.

"Are you with us?" Athos asked.

Porthos drew on every ounce of strength he possessed and simply forbade his body to fail him right now, forcing his weakened knees to remain locked. "Yeah, m' with you," he murmured, using his irritation with himself to cover any weakness that might have colored his voice.

"Are you sure? That's a pretty decent sized gash," d'Artagnan observed as his fingers gently prodded the source of Porthos' misery. "You look like someone bashed your head in."

"'at's proba'ly cause someone did," he replied, his patience clearly wearing thin. "I'll be fine. After all, i's not my blood that's stainin' the ground."

"No, you are merely the one who can not currently keep his balance," Athos remarked. "But I do see your point." The older Musketeer directed a meaningful glance in d'Artagnan's direction and the younger man reacted immediately by tightening his hold on Porthos' elbow.

Releasing his steady grip on Porthos' shoulder, Athos now wound his arm around Aramis' waist in support. "Alright. Are we quite certain no one else is hiding any other injuries?" Receiving three separate glares with equal levels of irritation, Athos met each of them unflinchingly and undeterred. "Then whilst everyone is still standing, let us keep moving."

Only Aramis made no effort to follow his Captain's lead as he remained rooted to the spot, one arm still firmly intertwined with Porthos', the other pressed tightly into his side. "You're concussed." The marksman's breathless whisper demanded Porthos' entire focus. "I can tell."

"An' you got yourself stabbed." – Porthos felt his lips twitch into a tentative smile – "Nobody's perfect." His attempt to alleviate the tension fell flat and his smile slipped off his face when Aramis' ashen features reminded him that his friend's blood continued to escape. Renewed urgency caused his heart to beat faster.

When Aramis' concern continued to shine unguarded in his too bright eyes, Porthos attributed it to his friend's exhaustion and pain. The price he paid just to keep upright was evident in Aramis' labored breathing as well as the sweat beading on his brow.

Porthos doubted that the other man would be able to keep his feet for long and knew it was time to get them moving. "Tell you what," he offered. "We close that wound and get you settled. Then you can fuss over me all you want."

Aramis' nod was stilted, but a small smile graced his features. "Your terms are acceptable."

Exhaling slowly, Porthos nodded in Athos' direction, and together they turned back to seek shelter inside the ruins.

TBC


	2. Part II

Here we go… the conclusion to my little tale.

A huge thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited and reviewed this story. You guys are awesome! :)  
Many thanks also to my wonderful beta JackFan2 whose input and help with this piece has been invaluable.  
I hope you enjoy!

 

Part II - Aramis

When they cleared the threshold to his former prison, Aramis felt the last of his composure quickly evaporate, much like a drop of water on a hot stone. Leaning heavily on the pillar that was Athos, he'd been forced to forgo any pretense regarding his condition as soon as they had cleared the staircase leading into the ruins.

The exertion had left Aramis' body wracked with tremors and had stolen the air from his lungs while blood and sweat blended together beneath the makeshift bandage that he continued to press into his side. Desperately battling his shaking legs, Aramis urged them not to fail him while he carefully negotiated the last few steps to the crackling fire.

A sensation that called to life an image of burning embers had awoken in his lower left side as soon as Grimaud had made his daring escape and the adrenaline that had hijacked his system dissipated slowly. The fire now relentlessly gnawed at his waning defenses and slowly burned itself into his already aching soul.

Aramis silently cursed Grimaud and his Posse, condemning the actions of a few wretched souls who would mindlessly prolong this war only to further their gains. In addition, his heart fiercely raged against his friends for their inability to do what was necessary to stop their nemesis.

In the end, however, Aramis knew that the blame for Grimaud's escape lay squarely upon his own shoulders.

Months ago, when his brother's paths had lead them to Douai, he had seen it as a sign. A sign that he was destined to be a Musketeer once more, that it was his duty to discard his robe and rejoin the fight against the evil in this world. Because regardless of the vows he had made, in his heart he had always known that his true vocation was to the sword.

Upon his return from the monastery, he had believed he had been given a second chance. A chance to rejoin his brothers and recreate the inseparable bond they had once shared.

This commitment proved more difficult than he had imagined, however, once he realized that thus far he had failed to earn Porthos' forgiveness. That, as of yet, he had failed to repair Athos' trust in his judgment and that he had failed to inspire d'Artagnan's unconditional loyalty.

He had not shared the information about the Queen's undertaking for peace with his brothers, not because her Majesty had deemed it a secret but because he had feared that Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan would not understand his motivations. He had not enlisted their help because he had feared that their faith in him would not be sufficient to follow him on the path he had chosen.

In the end he'd had to face Grimaud by himself because he had failed to restore their brotherhood to what it once was. And as a result, their nemesis had eluded them once more.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan called, the urgency in his voice conveying clearly that this wasn't the first time his attention was demanded.

"Hm?" As it proved difficult to form actual words, he settled on prying his eyes off the rocky ground in front of him, attempting to focus on his surroundings.

"You with us?" Porthos asked, standing tall on the other side of him and placing a comforting hand on Aramis' shoulder. "Don't you go anywhere."

"Believe me; I never wanted to go anywhere at all." His quietly spoken reply was a product of his earlier train of thought and served as evidence that right now his usual defenses could not be relied upon to keep his emotions at bay.

Fortunately, the true meaning of his words was lost on anyone else as three sets of eyes tried to ascertain how soon he might falter.

A sudden wave of regret swept through him like a living thing, clawing fiercely at his heart and reminding him that the Brotherhood he remembered might be lost to him forever. The sensation forced his throat to constrict painfully, and while he still gasped for air, his legs finally refused to carry him any longer and buckled.

"No, no. None of that." Strong arms halted his descend, sparing him the embarrassment of landing in a heap on the ground. "Kissin' the dirt ain't going to make things better," Porthos muttered under his breath as he strengthened his hold on Aramis' upper body.

"I believe we are done walking," Athos decided as he tightened his grip as well. "Right here will do." Turning his head toward d'Artagnan, the Captain added, "will you gather our supplies from the saddle bags?"

"Of course," the younger man nodded quickly before disappearing from sight.

Carefully bending at the waist but keeping one arm firmly pressed against the ragged hole in his coat, Aramis used the other arm to brace his weight on the large wooden log next to the fire and slowly lowered himself down to the ground in front of it.

The quivering muscles in his wounded side vehemently protested his newly acquired seated position by imitating the pinpricks of a thousand searing needles. His head fell onto his chest unbidden as his vision spun violently in tandem with his racing heart and a low moan, which summarized his condition so perfectly, was impossible to hold back.

"Here. Lean back," Porthos advised as he gently pushed against Aramis' shoulder until his back connected to the log behind him. "That should relieve some of the strain."

Breathing deeply, Aramis attempted to extinguish the fire greedily gnawing at his flesh but still his whirling head would not relent and threatened to turn his stomach against him when he felt acid rise at the back of his throat.

"Hey. Open your eyes an' look at me," Porthos demanded, his voice a low rumble.

Aramis admitted only to himself that he didn't recall closing his eyes in the first place and made an honest effort to follow Porthos' instructions. "I'm here," he muttered rather unconvincingly when Porthos finally appeared in his blurry field of vision.

"You better be." The comforting touch of Porthos' hand at the back of his neck and the timbre of his voice resonating in Aramis' ears suddenly caused his heart to long for the simpler times they had once shared.

Porthos' steady gaze kept him grounded until hurried footsteps heralded d'Artagnan's arrival a moment later. "I hope this will suffice," he said as he placed three water skins and a small supply bag next to Aramis on the ground. "It is all we have. A pouch with needle and thread, a small bottle of spirits and some linens."

"It will have to do," Athos replied, circling Aramis' wrist with his hand, slowly starting to move the arm that had thus far kept most of the blood at bay. Startled by the sudden motion, Aramis attempted to pull away from Athos' touch and inadvertently exerted more pressure on the wound.

When the fire slowly consuming his insides was stoked, his efforts to keep his breathing steady failed miserably as his chest started to heave with his increased heart rate.

"Easy now," Athos cautioned and tightened the hold on Aramis' wrist. "Will you let me see?"

As his Captain chose those familiar words to draw his attention, Aramis' eyes snapped to the side to look at the other man.

Underneath Athos' cloaked features, a mask carefully crafted during four years of war and misery, Aramis could recognize the simple wish to repay a favor. He realized then that regardless of any discord between them, they would stand up for each other in the end. Much like the last time those exact words had been spoken.

Perhaps there was hope for them yet.

Nodding once, he let Athos' hand guide his arm to the side to expose the wound for a quick examination. With his coat already undone and his shirt in tatters, it was immediately obvious that the sudden loss of pressure caused the ragged hole to bleed steadily once more.

"It needs to be closed. And fast." - Porthos frowned at the continuous flow of red and quickly reapplied the bandage, causing Aramis' damaged muscles to quiver in response. - "He can't stand to lose much more of that."

" It's a giant mess," D'Artagnan said bluntly after having glimpsed at the shredded flesh beneath the bandage. "Needlework might not be an option."

Aramis already knew it wasn't. When the serrated dagger had been forced into his side, he had felt his flesh tear violently under the jagged metal. The tool had left a messy hole, rather than a clean cut and he knew from experience that it would be next to impossible to apply sutures.

"Sutures won't hold," he forced the words between labored breaths. "You must burn it."

Even in his current condition, he didn't miss the silent exchange between his two oldest friends. The unspoken message clearly conveying their concern over the proposed method and its high risk of infection. Aramis felt an unexpected smile tug at his lips and took immense comfort in the realization that regardless of the years they had spent apart, some things hadn't changed.

Coming to the conclusion that their options were indeed limited and that no more time should be wasted, Athos nodded his head in acceptance. Reaching behind him, he freed the blade he carried on his belt and held it into the coals of the sputtering fire.

D'Artagnan opened the leather bag he had collected earlier and produced the bottle of spirits. "Here," he offered quietly and pulled the cork from the bottle with an audible pop, holding it against Aramis' lips. "You'll need it."

The liquid tasted bitter in his mouth and burned the inside of his throat like acid. After several gulps, his stomach threatened to revolt, and Aramis pushed at the bottle with a shaking hand.

Porthos reached for one of the water skins. "Let's wash this out," he muttered, lifting the bandage, "to make sure there is no dirt clingin' to it." He tipped the water skin and directed the flow of clear liquid across the wound.

Aramis tried to relax his body and slow his breathing in anticipation of what was yet to come.

When Porthos finished his ministrations, the bottle of spirits appeared once again in his line of sight. He knew that this time, it would not bring him comfort. "Are you ready?" d'Artagnan asked with a suspicious hint of remorse coloring his voice.

"Do it," Aramis nodded quickly before he could change his mind.

When the burning fluid started to flow into his wound, he dug both of his hands into the dirt on either side of him to refrain from curling in on himself. Throwing his head back to escape the pain, it connected to the solid piece of wood behind him with an audible thud. His eyes directed skyward, he focused on the sea of stone-gray clouds above and silently wondered if his heart would jump out of his chest.

"Now comes the hard part," Athos forewarned, as he slowly pulled the heated blade from the coals of the fire. "You better hold on to something."

Aramis did not attempt to move his limbs or lift his head from its current position. He was quite content to keep staring at the sky, pretending he was elsewhere. It was Porthos who suddenly appeared in his field of vision, a rock solid statue amidst thundering waves.

"Hold on to me," Porthos rumbled just as Aramis felt his forearm seized in an iron grip that suggested his friend had no intention of letting go even if the devil himself should make an appearance and attempt to claim him.

Finally averting his eyes from the sky in favor of locking his gaze onto Porthos, Aramis hoped fervently that the gratitude he felt for his friend's steadfast support was conveyed in his expression.

Aramis had just enough time to nod stiffly and tighten his hold on Porthos' arm before his world shifted on its axis. When sizzling metal came into contact with his torn skin, his vision turned white, and all knowledge of time was swallowed by the fog of agony surrounding him. His entire being suddenly consisted only of a blazing fire and searing pain.

After mere moments, cleverly disguised as unending torment, the blade finally lifted. Aramis was granted a brief respite when Athos turned to the fire to reheat the metal. Heaving painfully, his rapidly expanding chest fought to keep up with his body's demand for air as he waited for his misery to continue.

When a violent tremor seized him, and panic threatened to overtake his senses, he felt Porthos' grip tighten around his arm, attempting to anchor him to the present. "You're doin' great. It's almost over," his friend whispered hoarsely.

Turning back, Athos' grim expression served to announce how much he loathed this task bestowed upon him, yet he did not hesitate to press the searing metal to the last bit of torn flesh in his attempt to seal it shut.

Scorching agony bolted through Aramis' side as the blade once again connected with his traumatized skin and stood in stark contrast to the cold sweat covering his entire body, giving him an unwelcome suggestion of what a cold day in hell might feel like.

"Almost there," Athos reassured with an audible tremor in his voice.

Aramis would have liked to have gaged his Captain's expression but could not bring himself to unscrew his eyes.

When the smell of burned flesh reached his nostrils, and the excruciating sensation of liquid fire assaulting his muscles would still not abate, Aramis could no longer hold back the ragged scream that had been building inside his heaving chest. Finally tearing free of his throat, the sound of his suffering echoed loudly against the walls of their surroundings.

Vehemently trying to keep the encroaching darkness at bay, Aramis almost missed the sound of metal clattering against rocky ground.

"It is done," Athos said breathlessly as he rested a shaking hand on Aramis' chest. "Are you still with us?"

Forcing his eyes to open against their will was no easy feat. When the blurry outline of Athos finally took shape in his field of vision, Aramis found himself unable to respond to his friend's query as his voice appeared to be trapped inside his panting chest.

"One more thing," D'Artagnan whispered, the sound barely reaching his ears as Aramis started to drift somewhere between light and darkness.

Still, when the bottle of spirits was opened yet again, the familiar pop of the cork managed to penetrate his foggy surroundings and he instinctively knew that his tenuous hold on consciousness was about to be shattered.

"It's alright brother. We've got you," Porthos assured and once again cupped the side of his neck. "You can let go now."

Holding on to the truth that he wasn't alone, Aramis was able to make peace with the inevitable.

When the burning liquid once again seared his traumatized flesh, he willingly surrendered to the waiting darkness.

…..

The sound attempting to pull Aramis from the abyss into which he'd fallen registered as a noise of distress, and instantly caused his heart rate to adjust to a state of alert.

When his unusually heavy eyelids finally obeyed his command to open, he realized that night had fallen since his somewhat dramatic exit from the land of the living.

From his prone position on the ground, the full moon above was first to enter his line of sight, making an honest attempt to illuminate the night sky and warring for attention with the myriad of star constellations visible through the intermittent cover of the clouds.

When turning his head to either side of him, he discovered the wooden log to his right while the fire provided a comforting source of light and warmth to his left.

Squinting his eyes enabled him to look through the flames and recognize the silhouettes of Athos and d'Artagnan spread out on their bedrolls on the other side of the fire pit. Both of his friends appeared to be sleeping soundly and gave no indication that the noise that had roused him was caused by either one of them.

He was just about to dismiss it, when the sounds of harsh breathing issued from nearby, cut through the silence of their surroundings. Aramis quickly realized that the noise originated from behind him.

"No. Don't."

Though a mere whisper, the breathless words sounded panicked. Alarmed by the level of agitation coloring his friend's familiar voice, Aramis hurried to call out. "Porthos?"

When no reply was forthcoming, he grew anxious to lay eyes on the other man. Unable to turn his head far enough to see his friend, Aramis used both his arms to slowly push off the ground into a sitting position and was suddenly and very rudely reminded why they were here in the first place.

The inferno in his side ignited with his contracting muscles and briefly arrested the flow of air in his lungs. Stubbornly supporting his weight with his right arm, he attempted to breathe through the pain, knowing that if he collapsed back to the ground now, he would likely be unable to rise again for some time.

Drawing his knees up in front of him, Aramis used his feet to turn and push his body backward carefully, until he once again felt the solid support of the wooden log at his back.

A low moan escaped his throat as he screwed his eyes shut against the agony raging within and desperately tried to restore his composure.

As his left hand continued to hover over the white linens covering his wound, he gradually managed to slow his breathing and calm his thundering heart.

After the sting in his side finally subsided to more manageable levels, Aramis slowly opened his eyes in search of Porthos. He found his friend soon after, asleep on the ground next to him. The larger man's body was positioned at an angle to his own, Porthos' legs stretching out along the other side of the fire pit.

As he watched Porthos shift restlessly in his sleep and observed the orange glow of the flames dance on sweat covered features, Aramis realized that he witnessed his friend in the throes of a nightmare.

"Porthos," he tried again, urgency coloring his voice.

The remnants of dried blood matting Porthos' hair and staining his temple stood in stark contrast to the gray tone of his skin. Feeling a moment of panic, Aramis had to fix his gaze to the fast rise and fall of his friend's chest to remind himself that Porthos was, in fact, alive.

"Porthos. Wake up."

Drawn in by the clean set of stitches along his friend's hairline, Aramis reached out and let his fingers slide through damp curls.

Faster than a sleeping man had any right to be, Porthos' arm shot up and seized his wrist with an iron grip. Wild eyes stared at Aramis in utter confusion and the heaving chest before him was a testament to the other man's distress.

"It's me, my friend," Aramis assured calmly. Reaching for Porthos' shoulder with his free hand, he squeezed tightly, attempting to ground the other man with his presence. "It's just me."

He was able to watch as comprehension slowly dawned in Porthos' glassy stare and after several deep breaths, his friend released the almost painful hold he had on his wrist.

"Sorry," Porthos whispered hoarsely. "I didn't mean to-"

"You have nothing to apologize for."

The self-reprimanding huff Aramis received in response sounded utterly unconvinced.

Porthos' face turned into a mask of pain when he slowly pushed off the ground and moved back to rest against the log next to Aramis, his left hand shooting up to bury itself into his temple.

"Take it slow," Aramis cautioned and cringed in sympathy at the other man's discomfort. "How is your head?"

"Hard as ever." Porthos' stubborn reply was accompanied by the effort to unscrew his eyes and lower his arm to rest it on his upturned knee. "Got me some stitches. D'Artagnan's handy work."

"I saw. He's become quite skilled with the needle."

"He 'ad a lot of practice in recent years."

Porthos' simple explanation caused his heart to contract painfully inside his chest and he was hard pressed to tell whether the reminder of his absence during four years of war was brought forth solely by Porthos' comment or if it was a product of his own conscience.

Aramis shifted to the side in an attempt to rid himself of the uncomfortable feeling of regret spreading through his insides. The movement inadvertently pulled at the traumatized skin beneath the white bandage and the agonizing tremor taking hold of his body caused him to curl in on himself in reaction.

The strong arm instantly wrapping around his chest arrested his forward movement and pulled him into a supporting embrace. "Where do you think you're goin'?" Porthos asked, adjusting his hold to keep them both upright.

With his forehead firmly connected to Porthos' shoulder, Aramis fought hard to ignore the fiery tendrils licking at his tender skin in an attempt to drive him mad.

"Deep breaths, brother," Porthos advised as the larger man's hand moved in a comforting circle on his back. "Ya need to lie down."

"Not yet," he whispered breathlessly, the quiet sound almost lost between them. "Just give me a moment."

Aramis didn't miss the audible sigh that followed his request and knew that Porthos would accuse him of blatantly disregarding his own limits. And while he had certainly been guilty of that in the past, it wasn't the reason for his momentary stubbornness.

In light of what happened today, Aramis was determined to speak the words that had remained unspoken for too long.

Breathing deeply against Porthos' chest, he used the other man's familiar scent and steadfast presence to calm his thundering heart until it matched the steady beat beneath his hand. Finally able to take control over the pain steadily eating away at him, Aramis managed to lift his head and carefully reclined until his back once again rested against the log.

Not exactly certain where to start, Aramis voiced the first question that came to mind. "Will you tell me what haunted your dream?"

The orange glow of the fire accentuated the confusion written on Porthos' face as he quite obviously tried to discern what had prompted the sudden inquiry. "What's it matter?" he asked while retaking his seat next to Aramis, their shoulders touching.

"It seems to matter to you, or you wouldn't dream about it," Aramis replied quietly.

When Porthos studied his features for a long moment as if trying to understand the motivation that drove his question, Aramis met his gaze open and unflinchingly.

Quickly averting his eyes to stare into the dancing flames before him, Porthos finally relented with a sigh. "You died." - Bracing one elbow on his knees, he let his fingers slide through his unruly curls. - "In my dream. I didn't notice you were hurt. And you died."

Taken aback by a truth he had not expected, Aramis' breath caught in his throat. There had been no question in his mind that the nightmare he witnessed found its origin on some distant battlefield.

In the face of this new development, he could only think to state the obvious. "I didn't die, Porthos."

"Yeah, I can see that," Porthos remarked, his words laced with sarcasm. Exhaling slowly, his tone changed to one of self-reprimand. "But I failed to see you were hurt."

Aramis shrugged his shoulder unconcerned. "Yes, well. You sustained a severe blow to the head. That will challenge anyone's perception."

"My head had very little to do with it. I was angry," Porthos admitted hoarsely. "I was angry with you for bein' a stubborn fool and I missed the signs."

Aramis felt his eyebrows rise in response. "I will go out on a limb here and speculate that your resentment has not entirely abated?"

Turning his head abruptly, Porthos ignored his question and seized him with a fiery stare. "What were you thinkin'?" he whispered harshly. As the days events evidently rushed back to him, Porthos' voice suddenly held an air of disbelief. "Askin' me to shoot you? That's not what we do."

"I was merely trying to end this." Even as he voiced his explanation, Aramis knew it would be insufficient. "Grimaud needed to be stopped and in that moment that was the only way to assure his death."

"And yours!"

"Porthos, -"

"No. You listen to me!" Porthos demanded fiercely. "I know what it means to be a soldier who fights for 'is country. I know all 'bout the sacrifices we're 'xpected to make. Believe me, I do. But there are lines that should never be crossed." - Leaning forward, Porthos' piercing eyes begged him to understand. - "Lines that can't be crossed lest we lose ourselves."

The passionate speech resonated in Aramis' heart and made it impossible for him to be anything less than completely honest.

"I wasn't trying to be a martyr, Porthos," he started, lowering his head in defeat as his raspy voice matched his somber mood. "I was trying to rectify a grievous error in judgment." As he struggled to find the right words, he let himself be hypnotized by the flickering dance of the flames before him. "I should have told you about the Queen's plan, I just…"

Sighing deeply, Aramis rubbed his tired eyes with one hand before raising his head once more to find Porthos looking at him expectedly.

His friend's dark gaze seemed to make an honest effort to penetrate his defenses and Aramis finally gave into his need to share the thoughts that had plagued him for weeks. "Things haven't exactly been the way they used to be. It's been months since my return and I still struggle to find my place."

"Yer place is right here. With us," Porthos responded quickly, no trace of doubt evident in his voice.

Pointing a finger at the neat row of stitches on Porthos' temple, he challenged the statement. "You learned to live without me. Remember?"

"That what this is about? We didn't exactly have a choice in the matter -"

"Of course not," Aramis relented quickly. "It's just -"

"Let me finish," Porthos interrupted. "We may have learned to get by without ya. It don't mean your presence wasn't sorely missed. And it certainly doesn't mean you don't belong."

When Aramis remained silent, Porthos continued.

"War's changed all of us, Aramis. We're all a little rougher 'round the edges. A little less patient, and a little quicker to judge. But the bond we share can't be broken. You know why?"

Enthralled by Porthos' passion, Aramis slowly shook his head.

"Cause we're brothers by somethin' much more important than blood. We're brothers by choice. And as long as we remember that, that bond will always connect us to one another. Even if we're not physically in each other's presence."

Reaching to his right, Porthos rested his hand on Aramis' thigh, as if the contact would strengthen his words. "Do you understand what I'm sayin'?"

And Aramis found that he did. Porthos' words acted as a balm on his aching soul and the pieces that had been missing since his return from Douai finally slid into place. When his throat constricted suddenly and trapped his words inside, he locked wet eyes to Porthos' and nodded mutely.

"All for one, brother," Porthos said quietly.

As the familiar oath wrapped around Aramis' tired body like a blanket, he let his head drift to the side until it rested on his friend's shoulder.

"And one for all."

The End

 

Thank you for sticking with me through this slightly different version of episode 8 ;) I truly hope you had as much fun as I did!

I would love to hear your thoughts.


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